


when i was drowning, that’s when i could finally breathe

by mistrali



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Markings, Crying, Drunkenness, Eldritch Hug, Eldritch beings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Gen, Intimacy, M/M, POC Aziraphale, POC Crowley, POC!Aziraphale, POC!Crowley, Praise Kink, Queerplatonic relationship, Self-Loathing, cottage in the south downs, historical fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-06-09 23:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: “No one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring being.” - John Joseph PowellA ficlet series (non-sequential), mostly hurt/comfort.Title from Taylor Swift.





	1. when i was drowning, that’s when i could finally breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have this weird emotional h/c/praise kink thing.
> 
> Loosely inspired by one of the kink meme posts.

Crowley doesn’t even have to close his eyes to call up the angel’s favourites. Lemon-custard-berry tart with that particular pale gloss from the bakery on Queen’s Road in Hong Kong; white, decadent tiramisu from the Ritz; and piping hot koeksisters from an obscure cafe in their Cape Town days.

They’re the same three desserts he’s seen Aziraphale hover over countless times, dither and then (at a nudge from Crowley) give in and order.

Aziraphale’s eyes go dreamy and covetous. “Oh, Crowley,” he whispers. “You remembered.”

“‘As if I could forget,” the demon croaks. The room, already uncomfortably warm, heats up further. “I always tempt you into ‘em.”

Aziraphale tsks and plays with his hair, making Crowley sigh and lean into the touch. “And all those long drives, those trips to the theatre,” he says into Crowley’s ear, gentle as spring rain. “Are those just temptations too?“

“Some,” gasps Crowley. “No - I mean - yeah, all of them, angel.”

Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth this time, for a good five minutes, until they’re both flushed with pleasure. 

“You’re so considerate, my dear, exquisite inside and out.“

“I,” growls Crowley, heat flaring in his stomach, one hand clenched around Aziraphale’s feathers, “am not conssssiderate.”

“Oh, Crowley. Don’t, don’t hide your light under a bushel, I can’t bear it. You’re more human than I am - better than I am. You questioned the divine plan; you’re not really evil, not like Hastur and Ligur.” It’s a croon, almost, a hymn, a libation.

“Sssstop it, angel,” he moans, and oh, Satan, he’s going to evaporate on the spot just from that smouldering gaze, from the sincerity in the angel’s voice. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” Those blue eyes are on him, shining with devotion, laying him naked, seeing every vice and foible, every seduction and temptation, every indulgence, every good work, all the hidden motivations sliding and shifting under the surface which he can’t bear to examine. She would look at him like that, perhaps, if She were to forgive him.

“I Fell, Aziraphale,” he chokes out. “Remember?”

“Sauntered vaguely downwards,” counters Aziraphale calmly, and having his own words quoted back at him makes Crowley want to discorporate him — or discorporate himself, out of embarrassment, he’s not sure which.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” breathes Aziraphale, and then begins to positively worship him with his mouth.

Crowley writhes and cries out under the onslaught of pain - but pleasure, too, of having someone know exactly how unworthy, how ugly, how blessed despicable he is, and love him regardless. A crawling thing, like they call him Below. Demons are meant to be all those things by nature, but they’re not supposed to loathe themselves for it.

Aziraphale holds him close through all of it. Afterwards, he miracles them onto the beach, where Crowley lies insensate, cupped in the circle of Aziraphale’s wings, the sound of the surf in his ears, washed clean of sin.


	2. drives the flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same song, different lyric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part at the end owes much to Deltora Series 3.
> 
> Title from Dylan Thomas. For [a prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?replyto=327272) in the kink meme: ‘angel in denim’ and also partly inspired by an earlier prompt about shorts.

The first time Crowley walks into the bookshop and sees Aziraphale wearing jeans and a navy button-down shirt, he nearly discorporates on the spot.

“Angel. You’ve changed your... uh.” 

“I thought I’d update my style a little. Adam says they’re in vogue these days.” An impish smile. “I computer-ordered them from one of those shops that young people like.”

“Ggggh,” Crowley manages.

“Oh, you think it doesn’t suit?” says the angel, crestfallen.

“No, it’s alright, angel. I was just surprised, that’s all. Nice to see you’ve decided to come kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century,” he says wryly, when he can talk coherently again.

Je- Satan, who knew Aziraphale could pull off that look? They’re the tightest thing Crowley’s ever seen Aziraphale wear - a dark blue number that plunges to the angel’s ankles via a mile of plump calf, knee and thigh. 

Levis shouldn’t be this bloody hot. He’s seen countless young men wearing them in clubs. He’s tempted those humans, left them loose and languid beneath him and walked away the next morning without a qualm.

And yet. He has to stop himself from staring. He tries little covert glances when the angel’s not looking. But that just makes his fingers itch to press Aziraphale against the wall again and snog him senseless (for a start). Oh, it’s demonic enough, succumbing to preternatural wiles. Other demons Down There do it to each other all the time, to keep in practice and also to pass the time between assignments. [1] But because Crowley’s been on Earth so long, usually he’s the one doing the enticing. It’s only ever Aziraphale who makes him weak at the knees.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale putters around and stretches to reach the highest shelf, and kneels and bends to unload new boxes. He has no concept of how gorgeous he is, either, which makes Crowley even more frustrated.

For the next three hours, Crowley resists temptation to such a degree that he can almost feel himself becoming holier (if Aziraphale knew, he’d be proud). Twitching, through gritted teeth, he mentally recounts all the evils of the day instead of transforming the jeans into a pair of chiffon underwear or, better, consigning the whole lot to the ether. Each time he catches a glimpse of Aziraphale’s legs he thinks very, very firmly of Beelzebub and Gabriel together, which terrifies him enough that his erection fades and he starts sweating with fear instead of lust. 

By mid-afternoon, Crowley’s ready to kill Adam. He’s almost tempted to ask Aziraphale to go to the Ritz so that he won’t have to look at his blessed legs and — aaahhh. Hallow all Antichrists and bloody tempting angels...

“Crowley, what...?”

Crowley kisses him - properly, as he’s seen humans do so many times. Aziraphale’s quiet gasp gives him pause. He wants to throw himself on the angel and kiss and bite every inch of exposed skin, but doesn’t yet dare. 

Instead he takes a deep breath and, before Aziraphale can quite recover from looking stunned, he turns into a snake and wraps himself around the angel, sinking into heavenly and bodily heat both. Aziraphale’s light is warm and bright around him in this form, and it’s still not enough, with all this flesh between them. It’s not the same as his true form, but it’s the closest one he can bear to manifest just now. The other involves sinking even further into the ethereal plane. He doesn’t want the angel to see the creature he became when he Fell: a black jawed leech, barely eight feet across, wanly bioluminescent. Like something out of the Marianas Trench.

“All right, angel?” he hisses, flicking a forked tongue out to lick Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do that for...”

Aziraphale hums. “We don’t have to talk about this again,” Crowley begins to say, but Aziraphale’s eyes are calm and kind. His voice is commanding and warm, all at once.

“You can change back, my dear.” And Crowley finds himself in his true demon form, fairly melting into Aziraphale’s — well, where his two arms used to be. Because the angel before him has lost his human shape too. Crowley is being cradled by a thousand arms and engulfed in six vast wings whose susurration would have long ago killed any human.

“Close enough, darling?” whispers Aziraphale, and his voice washes through Crowley like a river breaking its banks.

The sound he makes in return is something like a moan, or like a flower opening, or moonset on a distant planet. 

All the angel’s eyes are open at once. Only about a quarter of them are looking at Crowley, but he sees himself reflected in them and it’s wondrous. Is he truly this ash-dark thing, this speckle of fungus? Or is he, even still, the fruit tree and the apple that ripens upon it, the errant root and the leaf in bud? Who’s doing the tempting here, really, and who’s being devoured?

The angel’s song is all around him, too — blue-green poison silting through veins he didn’t know he had. Just as he thinks he’s going to die of it, it eddies away, leaving him blissful in the backwash.

——

[1] And on the surprisingly effective theory that it’s easier to tempt if you know what being tempted is like, and that they bloody well deserve a bit of what the humans have.


	3. peacock

From [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=389992#cmt389992)

—-

Crowley stared open-mouthed at the expanse of skin before him. Aziraphale’s lower back was the same light brown as the rest of him. But his upper back was adorned with fractals of royal blue, green, gold and brown, in semicircular patterns which reminded Crowley a bit of peacock feathers. The blue shifted even as he drank it in, becoming violet, mauve, indigo. They weren’t in any sort of sigils (not that he could read, anyway), just pretty decorative shapes.

“Mind if I touch them? Your, er, markings,” he heard himself asking. Aziraphale blinked, and looked a little flustered. “Oh. Yes, of course, if you’d like. You don’t think they’re too.. well... loud?”

“Um,” said Crowley. “Yeah, no. _Loud_ isn’t the word I’d use, angel.” Wonderingly, unable to help himself, he traced a line of orange with his fingertips.

Aziraphale shuddered, and Crowley withdrew his fingers like they’d been scorched. “Sorry, angel. Did that hurt?”

Aziraphale made a soft little noise and shook his head. “No,” he said, very, very quietly. “You could never hurt me, dear. It’s just...” His eyes were bright, his attitude almost prayerful. “It’s been a while, that’s all. Humans can only see them if I make an effort, you know, and it’s... not like I get regular contact with Upstairs.”

“So,” wondered Crowley, “What does it feel like when I...?”

He put his mouth to the markings, licked one of them with his tongue. It felt... warm? Just like skin, really.

But Aziraphale, oh, Aziraphale was murmuring in Hebrew. “It feels holy,” he breathed. “Worshipful, Graceful, like I’ve never...” and then a long string of words Crowley couldn’t catch, culminating in something that sounded like _God_.

Crowley only just caught the angel when his knees buckled.


	4. with the blossom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Nick Drake (Blossom).

He senses Aziraphale’s presence as much as he hears the soft footfalls, tastes the clean linen scent of him well before he’s through the bedroom door. He should’ve left fifteen minutes ago - the viewing starts at moonrise - and chalked Crowley’s absence up to demonic wiles. Not turning up on time to appointments, as far as Crowley is concerned, is about as dastardly as it gets. Typical bloody angel, has to stick his nose in and scupper all of Crowley’s plans. 

Never mind that Crowley’s only plans for the evening involve getting blind drunk. 

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

“Nnnh. 'S a bit much,” Crowley mumbles. He tries to haul himself upright, but lies instantly back down when his head starts to spin. He’s past the point of sobering himself up, and besides, he doesn’t want to. He suddenly wants nothing more than Aziraphale tonight, now that he’s here in the flesh. There’s the gold chain around his neck, the orange cotton yukata patterned with cherry-red blossom, sandalwood-scented and soft against Crowley’s palms.

“Oh, dear, I can see you aren’t. _What’s_ a bit much?”

“The... the hanami. Wanted to go there. Cause missschief. Sssspill all the ink. Spike sssomeone’s... poetry.”

A long, low chuckle, right next to Crowley’s ear. “My dear, I believe ‘sabotage’ is the word you’re after.” For a wonder, Aziraphale doesn’t even sound put out.

“You were all... keen. Like trying a new dish,” mutters Crowley, spidering closer to where Aziraphale’s lowered himself onto the bed.

When he chances a look at the angel’s face, Aziraphale’s beaming at him, radiant as any star. “I was enthusiastic about seeing it with _you_. We can go next time.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, blindsided. The angel skipping a festival for him (skipping food because of his idiocy)... best not to think too hard about that. “Right. Well. You - you watch out. ’M a demon. You’ll have to thaw - th — stop me.”

“I believe I’ll manage,” says Aziraphale drily. “I’ve had some experience with demons. Friends in low places, you see.”

What the Heaven is he supposed to say to that? It’s just like Aziraphale to drop that sort of a bombshell. Friends - as though it was something self-evident, like gravity or the moon. Instead of responding in words, he crawls up into Aziraphale’s lap and tries his best to curl up there. Gangly and bony as he is, he’s probably hurting the angel, but Aziraphale arranges him like a marionette anyway.

It’s Aziraphale who helps him out of his clothes. Crowley hasn’t the energy to do much but lie there, boneless, while Aziraphale peels the robes off him like he’s shucking an oyster - or caring for a shedding snake - and miracles a fresh garment, a hemp nightgown, right onto his body.

“Ssstay, angel.”

“Crowley. Oh. Of course I’ll stay. Some dishes are worth savouring.”

It makes a lump rise in Crowley’s throat and he has to shut his eyes before he does something completely undignified. Still, tiny drops leak out of the corners of his eyes. He hides his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder and lets himself be cradled, petted and rocked, murmured and ministered to.

The lump dissolves, then, and hot tears flow down Crowley’s cheeks. Shoulders shaking, he lunges away and buries his face in the luxurious pillow to muffle his sobs. Aziraphale has the grace to keep silent and still. He’ll probably tease no end in the morning, thinks Crowley muzzily. 

“‘M fine,” he manages, sniffling and mortified, after a while. “Just... uh...” Bless these humans and their stupid tear ducts. “Just need some sleep.” He doesn’t insult the angel by asking _Will you be here when I wake up_ , or _Will you keep me from having nightmares?_ Let Aziraphale steal back to court, ephemeral as spring itself, under cover of darkness: service rendered, errand done, fiend soundly thwarted.

But his friend is as good as his word, because when Crowley wakes up long past dawn from a pleasant, dreamless sleep, Aziraphale - rumpled yukata, mussed hair and all - is fast asleep beside him.


End file.
